Father Joe The Man Who Saved My life by Tony Hendra Prologue There he stands on the muddy clay of the little promontory, hands under scapular for warmth in the chill, his wide rubbery mouth beaming serenely at the gray turmoil of the English Channel . Hooked over vast ears, framing a fleshy groundhog nose and battered granny glasses, is his black monk’s cowl, ancient and rudimentary shield against the blustery rain. Farther down: irredeemably flat feet in black socks and big floppy sandals, these emerging from scruffy black robes whipped by the squalls and revealing—if you’re lucky glimpses of white English knees so knobbly they could win prizes. Dom Joseph Warrilow is his formal monastic name, but everyone calls him Father Joe. I have seen him in this pose and place countless times down the years, in the flesh or in my mind’s eye. Never once have I been able to stop a smile from coining to my lips. He’s as close to a cartoon monk as you could imagine. And he ...
